


It's War, After All

by Nessarin_the_greatish



Category: The Dragon Prince (Cartoon)
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Mild Injury, Near Death Experiences, Nightmares, Non-Linear Narrative, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Reunions, Time Skips, War, angry confessions, i guess?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-21
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-07-15 04:49:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16055882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nessarin_the_greatish/pseuds/Nessarin_the_greatish
Summary: A tale of heartache, of tragedy,Of love, and of seeking clarity,Of chaos and injury,It's bad that he falls,Because it's war after all.





	1. On the edge of death.

**Author's Note:**

> Uhhhhhh I don't know what this is but lucky for you this is gonna be like, a multi chapter thing I suppose. ENJOY!!!!!

**Then**

 

War is like the torrential downpour that clouds the world from view from the inside; peering out the window is only an unclear picture, disjointed and distant.

 

_He should be back by now._

 

The sky's a predator, while the unfortunates below remain its prey.

 

It's war, after all.

 

-☆-

 

Soren wanders outside, disregarding the storm brewing, and against Claudia's wishes. He sits down on an old, worn down bench, Ivy clinging onto the sides. He sits and waits, for he should suffer and fall prey to the storm, he should be there.

 

Marcos should be safe.

 

-☆-

 

A majority of the soldiers sent out on their night patrol return. Marcos is not one of them. Bitter seeps into Soren’s tongue and shivers rattle his body. He'll wait a little longer.

 

_I'll always wait._

 

_The sun will come up and I'll still be there._

 

-☆-

 

Soren can't feel his hands by the time a familiar silhouette stumbles into view, covered in mud, heavy footsteps and visibly heaving.

 

The night seems to have dimmed, and Soren realises that the light making way is the sun-- how long had it been?

 

“Marcos?” Soren rushes to meet him, despite the ache, despite the numb in his body from sitting in the rain for all that time.

 

“S-Soren…” Marcos leans into him immediately, hands clasped to his shoulders to steady himself. “What exactly possessed you to be out here awaiting my arrival?”

 

They're both shaking, both so broken and vulnerable. But they don't care to hide it. They never did. Soren winds his arms around Marcos’ torso, easing him closer, tightening his grip, saying without words, _“I won't let go, I'm glad you're ok.”_ And he's sure Marcos knows that by now, but he whispers it into the crook of his neck regardless.

 

“I was worried you know. I'm glad you're alright.”  

 

Marcos’ grip tightens.

 

“I nearly died tonight Soren.”

 

“ _Nearly_ .” Soren sighs. “You _nearly_ did, but you made it.”

 

Soren can feel the smile on his lips.

 

“Yeah. I made it.”

 

-☆-

**The rain clears away, and the light makes way to a new day.**

-¤-

 

_You made it. You nearly died but you made it._

 

_How much more?_

 

-¤-


	2. Crashing and Shattering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get ready for more angst and nearly dying WOOO :)

**Before**  

Dark hair, poised and reserved. A new face in the royal guard. Soren can't help but stare, as he's not used to anyone his age being apart of some of the most skilled guards in the kingdom. There's a subtle glint in his eyes, something that sets his soul alight and--

 

_Focus, focus._ _You mustn't get distracted._

  _Although...he is kinda cute._

 

-☆-

 

Side glances and small smirks, late night training and races on horseback back to the courtyard--  that is Soren and Marcos, and he wouldn't have it any other way. It's when the feelings rise that things come crashing down.

 

-☆-

 

_Thud, thud, thud._

_And it all falls apart._

 

-☆-

 

“Soren, _why_ would you _do that_ ? You could've _killed_ yourself out there!” Marcos’ strained voice echoes against the barren walls of a room full of rusted armour, a room once filled with heavy sighs and bloodied sides…now only the two remain.

 

Soren squeezes his eyes shut, hand pressed against a wound on his shoulder, and then looks up, sighs. Stands up and looks Marcos in the eye. Doesn't he know why? 

 

“I was doing what I was sent out there to do…” Soren drops his gaze. That isn't why.

 

At that, Marcos scoffs, incredulous. “You risked your life for me Soren, you, you were supposed to be up there defending the border, but--”

 

“What am I supposed to say Marcos? What do you _expect_ me to say? That I'm stupid and irresponsible?”

 

“ _Yes!--_ ”

 

“No…” Soren huffs out an exasperated chuckle. “Well sometimes, but right now, not one bit OK?”

 

Marcos is clearly losing his patience, edging closer as talks, fists clenched. Soren has all but forgotten what he's saying, focusing on his eyes; hazel etched in red, fire cascading, swimming in his irises, igniting them. The angry words fade away and Soren feels lost, yet more assured than ever. 

 

“ _Soren,_ why, why.. I nearly saw you die out there and I was, I was worried…” his clenched fists are shaking. Anger isn't etched in his expression, it's something else.

 

“I think I'm in love with you.” Soren's shoulder is searing with pain, but the violent thudding against his rib cage matches it as he curls his hand around Marcos' wrist, as he leans in. 

As Marcos leans in too. 

 

_Thud. Thud. Thud._

 

_I think I'm in love._

-

That's when the words stop, replaced with silent communication. One of wide eyes, and gentle hands, one of soft lips tracing skin and stifled cries. It's solemn. It's not Soren and Marcos, not the way he's used to, but it's beautiful.

 

-☆-

 

_Keep feelings detached,_

_let others fall, and shatter into pieces._

_it's war after all._

 


	3. Nightmares with no one there

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: if you don't like descriptions of blood skip over the part where is says "This time, they don't hold back" up until "After. " It's not anything majorly gory, but I thought I'd be cautious and let it be known anyway. Anyway, enjoy!

**After**

 

The merciless clap of thunder is oh so familiar to Marcos, as is the feeling of the dark suffocating him. Looking around in a panic does nothing, his hurried footsteps leads him nowhere. Fear fills his lungs. 

 

_ I'm going to die.  _

 

The terrain is suddenly laid out before him, but it's no better, it doesn't empty out the terror consuming him. 

 

_ Do I know this place? _

 

_ -×- _

 

_ Smile through the pain, _

_ sing through the nightmares,  _

_ Life passes by in light years.  _

 

_ -×- _

 

**Then**

 

The stirring beside him is what wakes Soren up. He lifts his head and turns to face Marcos, about to ask if he's awake, but sees the look on his face and falters. 

 

It's one of unconscious terror, brows furrowed and lips curved downwards. 

 

“Marcos? Babe, you OK?” he leans forward and whispers to Marcos, his voice filling up the once silent room. 

 

At first, Soren thinks he hears a murmur, and relaxes. 

 

_ Maybe it's not a— _

 

But, the murmurs continue, half words and helpless whimpers, and Soren knows that a nightmare is exactly what it is. 

 

_ -×- _

 

Over the dark forest hangs an ominous air, one that weighs down on Marcos as he trudges past trees that all look the same. The rain beats down hard on his armour and he feels on edge, though he can't quite place why. 

 

A snap of a twig is all it takes to get him to twist round and shout out, “Who's there? Declare yourself, in the name of King Harrow!”

 

Then, a clap of thunder, and for a split second a dark figure is visible to him, and he takes a shot, blindly as the rain torments the lowly earth below, pouring down like daggers. 

 

Marcos misses, and the silhouette surges forward. At that point, he is only too aware of how ruthless his opponent, showered in darkness, is. 

  
  


_ Run, just run. _

 

The path ahead is barely visible in the murky night that engulfs Katolis, but he can't stop, in fear of what will happen if he does, when he does. 

 

The rain, the thunder and lightning persists, as a relentless force, there to be his downfall, there to be his demise. It's one thing that he can't run from, as it's all around him— and how can you run from the world itself?

 

One misstep has Marcos hurling down the ledge, into the mud. Try as he might, even when he manages to scramble onto his feet, he knows it's too late. The dark figure is upon him. 

 

And there's nowhere to run. He can't run. Feet planted on the ground, the world spitting in his face. Marcos has lost. 

 

Something sharp at his throat, he closes his eyes, and doesn't make one last plea to his ruthless attacker. This time he does nothing. 

 

This time, they don't hold back.

 

Before everything goes dark, Marcos is acutely aware of a warm liquid mixing with the rain as the daggers cut deeper. Warmth, trailing down his neck, slowly engulfing him, covering him. He hates this part the most. 

 

Because he knows it's his blood. 

 

_ -×- _

 

**_After_ **

 

Marcos rubs his eyes. He's convinced that if he rubs hard enough, gets all the sleep out of his eyes, that the nightmares will fall away with them too. They never do. 

 

There's a knot in his stomach. Tight and persistent. It takes hours into the day until the unsettling feeling crawls to the back of his mind, where it should rightfully be. 

 

The nightmares had stopped temporarily, while Soren was there with him at least. Now his bed is empty, cold and unforgiving. 

 

_ When are you coming back? _

 

_ -×- _

 

_ With no one to hold,  _

_ And a heart sold,  _

_ Insomnia and insanity begin to unfold  _

 

_ -×- _


	4. Drowning and hatred are one in the same

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is pure angst sorry not sorry

**Before**

 

Loving someone is so much harder when you're in the midst of a war, Soren finds out.

 

It was always going to be hard, he's well aware, but the realisation of that changes nothing.

 

_We could die any day now_

 

But still, he fights. He fights because he pledged allegiance to his King, and war is not forgiving to lovers.

 

Sometimes Soren hates that.

 

_-×-_

 

“Good luck on your mission,” Soren leans into the hand resting on his shoulder, biting back a broad grin.

 

Since that messy confession, since those hushed words and quiet whispers and _them_. Since that, goodbyes are something they never forget.

 

“See you soon…I—” the words stop at his throat, interrupted by a cough.

 

Viren is stood there, hands clasped and a taut smile on his lips.

 

“Marcos,” he nods a hello, then turns his attention back to Soren.

 

_Oh God._

 

Soren's stomach is in knots, the butterflies Marcos had placed there seconds ago twisted and tangled up into something of dread.

 

It's a feeling he should have grown used to, after all these years. But instead, it's always new and bitter tasting.

 

“This mission is very important. You'll be acquiring something that will give us an advantage in this war. I'm counting on you. Do _not_ mess it up, or there will be consequences.”

 

“Yes Sir,” Soren says, throat tight and head light.

 

_Don't mess it up. Don't mess it up. Don't—_

 

“Hey. You'll be alright—” Marcos wraps his arms around him, pulls him in. Soren wants nothing more but to sink into him and drown—”I'm sure you're dad is just stressed right now.”

 

Soren wishes that's the case. Before pulling away, Marcos places a chaste kiss to his jaw.

 

It will be alright.

 

He'll complete the mission and make his dad proud. And as he mounts his horse, rides past the kingdom of Katolis, he tells himself that. Over and over.

 

But a fraction of him doesn't believe it. Maybe that's how he fails the mission.

 

_-×-_

 

The dark strewn across his face, worn like a mask, terrifies Soren. He's paralysed by that face and has been for too many years.

 

“Dad I'm—”

 

“—I'm disappointed Soren. I thought you could do it, but yet again you fall short.”

 

Viren takes a step closer, and Soren stands his ground. Not out of courage, but a fear that takes hold of him and freezes him on the spot.

 

“I'm sorry, I really am— I'll, I'll do better next time, I promise—”

 

“Stop. Talking.” he utters a word Soren can't understand, eyes fading into black for a moment.

 

He does.

 

“Oh, and—” Viren turns on his heel and faces away from Soren, towards the window—”One of your hunting dogs passed away. The old one…”

 

The fear is crushing his guts and wrapped around his throat so Soren only manages a strangled cry. Maybe it's a spell. He isn't sure.

 

_Lacey wasn't that old, so. He—_

_He did something_

 

Finally, the invisible hold on him lets up. Soren gasps first, catches his breath. There's something stinging his eyes and trailing down his cheeks. He wipes them away furiously.

 

“You—” he chokes on his own words.

 

“ _I_ did nothing. Besides, it was just an animal, Soren. Now leave.”

 

Soren stands there, incredulous. It's only when Viren begins to turn around that he hurries out. Slams the door shut behind him and exhales.

 

_Fuck. No no no no no no no no_

_He can't have— he wouldn't have—_

_He—_

 

“Soren, hey…”

 

He feels like crying all over again at the sight of Marcos, eyes dimmed and brows furrowed, leaning next to him against the door.

 

“You OK?”

 

Even though he hates keeping secrets, even though things are good with Marcos, Soren says, “I'm fine.” It couldn't be further from the truth.

 

He's sure Marcos knows that instantly, but instead, he doesn't say a word. Instead he takes Soren's hand.

 

“Wha—” he starts as Marcos leads them down a winding staircase, and approaches _his_ bedroom door.

 

Once it's securely shut is when he finally turns to Soren again, a slight spark hiding behind his eyes.

 

And Soren likes it. He diminishes the thought of his father and what he did and what he's done. And Marcos is sauntering towards him, with purpose, _right_ towards him. He's winding his arms around Soren and edging closer and closer and—

 

“—Heard you did great on the mission.” a peck on his jaw.

 

Soren nearly laughs. “I failed the mission, Marcos.” A kiss on his nose.

 

“Not to me—” his arms drop and he squeezes Soren's hands, holds them in his, rubs circles in his palms—”You didn't come back completely empty handed, did you?”

 

This, he doesn't like. Talking. Talking and not forgetting. Instead he wants that spark that Marcos had in his eyes momentarily, poured all over him, pulsing through him. He hates talking right now.

 

“I'm… I'm proud of you,” Marcos says, whispers even, touch delicate, and light.

 

_I'm proud of you_

 

Marcos traces patterns into his cheek, eases forward and, and hesitates.

 

Soren _hates_ that.

 

“What are you waiting for?” He finally asks, tired of waiting, talking, thinking.

 

“Nothing.”

 

_I’m proud of you_

 

There's no more delicacy between them now. Marcos surges forward, and Soren meets him halfway, lips slotted together messily, teeth and tongue and hands clawing at each other’s clothes. They stumble, pay no attention to their surroundings, but by some miracle Soren is pinned down against Marcos on his bed.

 

_I’m proud of you_

 

“Fuck, “ he gasps, every touch being too much, like an electric shock, like a body set alight with desire.

 

 _This_ , with no words, with heavy breathing and grunts and wordless mumbles. With Marcos’ hand under his shirt—

 

_I'm proud of you_

 

—and cold fingertips pressing into his abdomen making him shiver.

 

Right now, as Marcos’ lips are pressed against his neck, as his teeth nip and scrape at sensitive skin—

 

_I'm proud of you_

 

—as he writhes and fire pumps all throughout his veins, Soren should be forgetting.

 

But—

 

_I'm proud of you_

 

Is all he can hear. He wants to make it stop.

 

_If I just keep on—_

_Keep on doing this_

_I'll forget_

 

Soren wraps his arms around Marcos and cards his fingers through dark hair. For a moment he forgets, remembering that all this, is the furthest they've ever gone. The revelation makes things much worse somehow.

 

_I'm proud—_

_—I'm proud—_

_I'm—_

 

Now Marcos is kissing his collarbone, and Soren is sure that'll leave a mark.

 

_I'm prou—_

 

Agonisingly aware, his grip tightens, clenched into fists, head ducked and eyes shut. He bites his lip, eyes stinging, something salty on his lips, blinded by watery misery as he tries so, _so_ hard.

 

_I'm proud of you._

 

A sob wracks Soren's body.

 

Marcos stops. And part of him wishes he wouldn't.

 

“Soren?”

 

He doesn't know what to say. All he can do is hold onto Marcos, tighter and tighter. And he can't look at him, can't even face him.

 

Turns out that's fine, because Marcos says nothing. Doesn't need to. Soren doesn't even want him too. He's comfortable in the silent shift of weight, so they're sat up now. And in how Marcos holds him in a way that makes him feel wanted, in how he strokes his hair and kisses his temple. There's no electric current, only a light flutter in his stomach. It's better that way.

 

In Marcos’ arms life itself seems timeless.

 

When he finally does say something, Soren has no idea how long they've sat there, like that.

 

“I'm sorry, Soren,” he mumbles, voice a little too hoarse and scratchy.

 

With a half scoff half laugh, Soren glances at Marcos. “For what?”

 

For a moment Marcos bites his lip in thought. Then, he presses his forehead against Soren's and sighs. It’s a sigh that's heavy, full of regret and full of defeat.

 

“For…everything, for—”

 

“—You said you were proud.”

 

Marcos forgets his apology entirely and nods.

 

“And then we were kissing, and probably would've done a lot more than kiss if I hadn't had a stupid breakdown, but I just, couldn't get the words, out of my head. I failed and you said you were proud and my brain just couldn't seem to handle that because, _he's_ never proud of me, and that's all I want him to be. He never pays attention to the great bits of me, which there are a lot of. Instead he just wants me to be better and better and better, and— and sometimes I can't handle the pressure—”

 

“Your dad?”

 

Soren ducks his head, no longer staring into hazel eyes. If he had any longer, he's sure he'd drown in them, in greens and greys and the truth. And the words he doesn't want Marcos to say. He fidgets with his hands to distract himself.

 

“He did something bad, because I failed the mission.”

 

Acutely aware of Marcos’ bated breath and furrowed brows, Soren's eyes linger on his shaky hands, eyes watery before a droplet lands on his palm.

 

“Soren, “ Marcos lifts his chin up, a thumb drawing circles on his cheek. ”It's OK to cry you know.”

 

But Soren hates it. Hates being this vulnerable. Hates crying and hates not being able to stop and hates—

 

“I'm going out for a run.” He stands up and makes his way to the door like it's a reflex.

 

Marcos doesn't call after him. Maybe it's because he's defeated, tired. Wishes he didn't get close to someone with _so much_ , drowning in their tears and their troubles.

 

Maybe he just knows that Soren won't look back.

 

-×-

 

_Stare into the soul of a snake_

_Unaware of how much they take_

_How many souls they shatter and how many hearts they break_

 

-×-

 

**After**

 

Marcos never trusted Viren then, and that remains the case. But however much he hates him. However much his blood boils and his stomach twists he needs to know.

 

He has too many questions and has gotten so little answers. Marcos lost weeks of sleep over the dull look in _his_ eyes, when they shared their last moments together before the sun peaked past trees, marking the end, for now.

 

It's only a rescue mission, and so surely, there's no need to worry. It'll be fine. Though the bags under his eyes and lump in his throat as he enters Viren's study say otherwise.

 

“Come in,” a voice calls from the other side of the door.

 

“Lord Viren,” Marcos starts, clearing his throat.

 

Viren faces away from him, staff in hand and gazing out the window. He doesn't say anything, so Marcos continues.

 

“I had some, concerns about the mission Soren's on. Or, rather questions.” from what he _really_ knew of Viren from Soren, fear itched under his skin each and every time they spoke. 

 

A sigh. “Go on.”

 

Marcos wants to ask what else is involved in this supposed search party, what made Soren so uneasy that night and if he'll be alright, if he _is_ alright.

 

“How long will he be gone for?” That seems close enough.

 

Silence bounces off the walls. Has a weight. Has a sound. Marcos can hear it and is painfully aware of it.

 

“Not long. Now leave, please. I have work to do.”

 

_Liar._

 

Without a word, Marcos nods his head and turns to leave, easing the door shut.

 

_Not long, not long, not long not long n—_

 

_But how long is that?_

_When will he be back?_

 

-×-

 

_It's a case of “if” not “when. ”_

_The world is not your friend._

_Expect all good things to end._

  
-×-  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this LONGER THAN USUAL chapter! For updates on this fic and other fun dragon prince stuff, follow me on Tumblr:
> 
> @femmelesbianrayla


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